Boundaries
by sweetburgundy
Summary: Series of one-shots for Dr Clarkson and Isobel. Not to be read as a 'story' with a plot. Simply five scenes from various stages/moments in their relationship - hopefully a little something for everyone!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I wanted to writing a very short but detailed scene between Richard and Isobel, and I have also attempted it in the present tense. It's very different to what I would usually write, so your feedback would be greatly appreciated! **

She always stands too close – just a fraction too close to be comfortable – and that's all it takes to set him off. The light scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath where it touches his bare skin – he can't stop thinking about it, about her, about _that_. His thoughts are improper, he knows, but he can't stop them entering his mind, and once they are there he can do very little to remove them.

She's talking to him now, intense brown eyes fixing his gaze, holding him there as she says words that he cannot hear. He's sure that she can see into his soul with those beautiful eyes. She can see every thought that crosses his mind. _Maybe she knows._ She doesn't look away, continuing to penetrate him with her gaze. _How can she look so innocent? _

He wonders what it would be like to touch the soft skin of her cheek, to run his fingers along her jawline down to her collarbone and feel her shudder under his touch. He considers her full, soft lips. She's still talking, but all he can think about is silencing her in one swift movement, her words filling his mouth, tasting them with his tongue.

_Stop._

A strand of golden hair is hanging loose on her forehead. She is unaware of it, but he isn't and he feels the colour heighten in his cheeks at the thought of brushing it away with gentle fingers. It would be the most tender of gestures – nothing inappropriate, a simple touch from a friend – but the thoughts that have been running through his mind have tainted it. It would be shockingly intimate – a stolen moment she had not freely given. The memory of that fleeting touch would become part of these dark thoughts he cannot stop; he would twist it into something it _wasn't_ simply because he couldn't stand the way it _was_ with her.

_She deserves so much more._

He shifts nervously, trying to put a little distance between the two of them, but she doesn't relent. _She knows what she's doing. _

He can feel the heat of her body tantalizingly close to his own. The gleam in her eye tells him that she knows he isn't listening to a word she is saying; she is enjoying this torture. He pleads with her silently – he will not take from her, he will not cross those boundaries. _But I'm only human._ She is assaulting his defences relentlessly in every way she knows how, and he wonders how much longer it can go on like this.

Silence.

He knows he should say something; he should put some substance to all the thoughts and unspoken words that he has kept to himself for so long. It should be different this time – he always regrets letting her walk away – but he is too shy, too overwhelmed and too ashamed. He finally steps away from her, putting the distance between them that is only right and proper. He sees her face fall, her mouth twitch in surprise in the moments before she composes herself.

She says something; it's insignificant small talk and he senses her barriers go up. She's turning away, bidding him goodbye; she's still smiling, but the hurt is there. He can see it in her eyes.

"Wait."

She stops. _What on earth am I about to do?_ He reaches out across the space between them; his hand is trembling, but he is still gentle as he gently brushes his fingertips across her forehead, sweeping back the piece of hair that had caught his attention. She leans in to his touch, her eyes closing for a moment and a heavenly smile playing on her lips. He knows now that he is not the only one taking these moments and replaying them over and over.

When they break apart, his fingers are still tingling with the softness of her skin and he understands the significance of the moment. She's suddenly shy, her cheeks flushed pink and for the first time he feels as though he has the upper hand. She is laid open to him, he can see everything in her eyes and in her expression. He knows the thoughts that she will have later, the ways in which she will indulge her own fantasies and he can sense her shame. _Maybe we're not so different after all._

He watches her leave, trying to supress the feelings of triumph; after all, they are just as bad as each other. He smiles at the memory of her shyness. _I know you too well, Isobel Crawley. What are we to do now?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, I decided to make this into a series of one-shots. They aren't necessarily meant to read on from one another, they aren't necessarily going to make a 'story' as such, although I will try stop it wildly veering all over the place! In other words, it's going to be 'snapshots' at various points of Richard and Isobel's relationship (some happy, some a bit angsty) and hopefully something to please everyone along the way! **

**I am nowhere near happy with this, but I thought I would share it anyway if you would be kind enough to let me know what you think :)**

'Show me.'

She's smiling at him, that wonderful, maddening smile of hers that makes him go weak at the knees. He breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy sigh, trying to release some of the tension that is building inside of him - one day, this woman will drive him mad.

She's standing in front of him now, her delicate hands reaching for his, and before he knows it, he has taken her into his arms, gently pushing and guiding her body with his. She's a natural, as he imagined she would be, and it isn't long before they are perfectly in step, elegantly waltzing like any of the younger couples that attend the village dances.

He tries not to pay too much attention to how their bodies fit together just right, or how he can feel the swell of her breast against him as they dance; he can feel the hard ridge of her corset beneath her dress as he guides her around the room, but he doesn't think about that either. Instead, he concentrates on the way it feels to finally have her in his arms, the full, dizzying warmth of her pressed against him as they lose themselves in this gentle dance.

_This is the way it is meant to be._

It is a strange thing, whatever thing is between them, whatever it is they are doing. This is not the way friends dance together – it's too tender, too careful - But what else can it be? They have not crossed that line yet, the one that turns friends into something else, something more than this, but they have been close. He's always stopped just short, not quite daring to take one more bold step, not quite daring to define _them _in that way_._

The most difficult part of moments like these - moments that push them to the edge of changing things forever - is returning to normal afterwards. No matter how hard he tries to hold on to the memories, they're never quite the same once she's gone. He tries desperately to recall them each night before he goes to sleep, but somehow just the ghost of her touch and the echo of her laughter in his ear are never quite enough.

One day, maybe things will change. One day the walls will come down and this will all be real, and while Isobel may pretend otherwise, the look in her eyes and the way she is lost in this moment betray the way she really feels; they are both as lost as each other, as unsure of the next step to take.

_If only things were different. If only one of us dared to…_

He picks up the pace, holding her tighter as they spin faster and faster, the world around him blurring, until her face is the only thing left. Nothing else matters, he supposes. It never did.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, what happens when Isobel finally runs out of patience? Hope you enjoy it, and if you have time, please let me know what you think! All feedback is greatly appreciated.**

She whispers something into his ear, her breath ghosting over his cheek, shivers running down his spine. He blinks several times, barely believing what she is asking of him.

"Meet me at midnight?"

He stares at her for a moment, searching for an answer in those beautiful eyes of hers, but she remains the perfect picture of innocence. She's holds his gaze, waiting for him to weaken, although he can see her chest rise and fall as she breathes a little too heavily.

He nods slowly, trying to find something, _anything,_ to say, but nothing seems quite right. Instead he turns to busy himself with the pile of papers on his desk, his hands in need of the distraction. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep up this façade of restraint around her, especially when she teases him like this; he doesn't want to be the one to break first, but he is dangerously close as she leans in to whisper to him one more time.

He can feel her breath on his neck again, making him shudder in delight. She puts her hand on his shoulder to steady herself, his skin tingling where he can feel the warmth of her through his shirt. She hesitates, her face inches from his, eyes closed as if she is praying – and then she kisses him.

It is a quick, delicate kiss, her lips barely grazing his, but it is a kiss all the same. He feels his knees weaken, and he clutches the desk for support as she steps away from him, eyes wide as if she can barely believe what has just happened. He catches her wrist, tries to pull her to him again but she shakes her head.

_Later._

* * *

She takes his hand - the one not holding the wine glass - and with a quick smile, she leads him to the door and out into the back garden. He is aware that he has had a bit too much to drink, but he still lets her fill up his glass with the bottle she has brought with her. She doesn't seem to care that it is after midnight, and although he knows that the morning will come too quickly, he has no desire to leave, or to stop drinking the delicious wine.

He takes a deep breath, gulping in the cool night air to try and steady his nerves and combat the effects of the alcohol; he is a little light headed, but he's not sure he can blame that solely on the wine. He can't help the way his thoughts turn to the memory of her lips against his, her breath on his skin – right there and then, it's almost too much.

She is still holding his hand as she turns to him in the middle of the lawn, taking the wine glass from him and discarding it in the nearest flowerbed. Her hands creep up around his shoulders as she tilts her face towards his, the moon casting a gentle silver glow over her soft features – his breath hitches in his throat at the sight of her. _So beautiful._

This time, there is no hesitation before he feels the full sweet force of her mouth on his – she is passionate and urgent, her patience with the teasing and games long ago worn out. He responds, taking her bottom lip in his mouth, tasting her properly for the first time - she tastes of vanilla and everything heavenly. He tries to be patient, tries not to rush things, because after all, it has taken so long to get to this moment, but he can't help the way his hands start to wander, how they start to explore her body as she presses herself closer to him.

She's falling apart – he can see it in the wild expression in her eyes, feel it in the urgency of her kiss. He holds her tighter, tries to convey that it's all right, there's no rush, but it seems to have the opposite effect. She's pulling him down on to the cool grass, every barrier broken, every suggestion of shyness or innocence shattered – and he finds himself succumbing to everything she's asking of him.

He closes his eyes as he feels the warmth of her weight on top of him, her lips still pressed firmly against his, stifling his moans as he writhes uncontrollably under her touch. She is undressing him, her fingers frantic, and he is suddenly grateful for the large bushes and trees that surround the back garden; he had never expected anything normal from Isobel, but he is suddenly self-conscious as she undresses him hastily in the cool night air. _Not here._

He takes her hand gently, stopping her in the middle of her quest to rid him of all his clothing; she pulls back, trying to hide a look of surprise and disappointment. He kisses her softly – a sort of apology – before pulling her to her feet.

"I don't know about you, but I think we should take this _inside_."

She smiles, the fire in her eyes once more as he leads her back towards the house. He pauses just before the door wanting to remember just how beautiful she is in the moonlight. He takes her face in his hands, stroking her soft lips with his thumb, wishing he could somehow keep this moment alive in his mind forever.

"Richard? Are you going to make me wait much longer?"

He laughs, leaning down to kiss her gently.

"Not _much_ longer, Isobel."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay in updates. I have had no internet for a long time, but hopefully that will sort itself out soon. Please let me know if/how you would like me to continue; I'm struggling for inspiration and not sure how much further I can go with this. Reviews make me happy :)**

He pushes her gently against the wall, a smile twitching at his lips as he pins her there with the lightest of touches. She tries to look indignant, struggles against him half-heartedly, but he can see the desire there in her eyes, dark and oh, so tempting. He leans in, brushes her lips with his own, just the lightest of touches that leaves her breathless, weak, unsatisfied.  
_She will learn._

She has been driving him to distraction all day – her pretty hair, her pretty hands, and those beautiful eyes. Everywhere he turns, she's there, clouding his mind with her flirtatious glances and that sweet laugh. There's always something about her he can lose himself in; working with her has become the most delicious torture he could ever imagine.

She tries to find his lips, but he's just out of reach. He lets her struggle, his hands still pinning her to the wall as she seeks out the contact she so desperately needs. It's heaven to see her crave him like this, her lips searching, the rise and fall of her chest as her desire grows.

He takes one finger and slowly, gently brushes the soft, plump flesh of her bottom lip, hot breath spilling over his hand as she sighs in frustration. _Isn't_ _this what you want?_

She struggles again, throwing her head back, refusing to look at him. He leans in, biting gently on the soft flesh of her exposed neck, soothing again with his lips. She quivers against him, weakening in his arms until her head is buried against his shoulder, gripping his shirt in her clenched fists. He is no longer holding her there; she is clinging to him, begging him for more.  
He smiles into her hair; he has no desire to tease her any longer than necessary. He waits, taking her into his arms until she finds the strength to look up at him through long, pretty eyelashes, her eyes full of accusation. He notices her hands are shaking.

He dips his head down, finding the warmth of her mouth, finally giving her what she needs. She is trembling, and he is supporting her, so he guides her over to the bed in the corner of the room, pushing her gently down onto the soft mattress. It is too small, but that doesn't really matter; he is too focused on her lying beneath him, cheeks flushed with desire and frustration. She is trying to pout, and heaven knows she should be annoyed with him, but she just can't keep it up. He laughs, earning himself a light slap on the shoulder.

"Oh, Isobel," he whispers with a grin. "What am I going to do with you?"  
She raises her eyebrows, her lips twitching with a smile. He is concentrating so much on her face that he doesn't notice her hands until he feels her soft fingers graze his stomach under his shirt, brushing past the waistband of his trousers. He gasps, completely wrong-footed for a moment by her sudden boldness - her expression is one of triumph as he buries his head in her chest, overcome by the feelings she is stirring in him.  
You win, Isobel. As always, you win.

She is pulling clothing from him now, tossing it aside unceremoniously in her haste. He tries to help her by working on the buttons of her dress, but he is too clumsy, and she is too impatient – she brushes him aside, making quick work of both her dress and her corset until all that remains is her slip. Her breath is hot on his skin, her cheeks pink as he takes in the full sight of her, the transparent material not leaving much to his imagination.

He struggles for a moment to retain control, but she stretches up, claiming his mouth once more. He comes undone, unable to hold himself back any longer – it all happens in a haze of tangled limbs, frantic kisses and stifled moans, finger nails scratching lily-white skin as they near their release.  
It's better than he ever imagined, to hear her gasping his name, her fingers tangled in his hair. She is usually reticent, a little bit shy even, but today he has driven her to something else, something wonderful. She is writhing beneath him, taking what she wants without asking, giving without being guided.  
He tries not to think about where her hands are wandering, but as the world turns white, he's happy to drown in her touch and the warmth of her skin.  
_You may have won, Isobel, but I don't_ _think I could ever really lose_.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Final update for this. I hope there's been something you've enjoyed through the course of these one-shots - it has certainly been a challenging experience writing them. This one is a little different - a little more dialogue etc. - but I hope you enjoy it all the same. Thank you so much for your feedback, and if I could just ask you to do it once more (either about this one-shot or the series as whole), I would be very grateful! **

His single bed is too small for two people but nothing could drag him out of it at this moment. The mattress is a bit softer than it used to be, the pillows a bit flatter, but he can honestly say he has never slept better; he may have spent the night balanced precariously on the edge of the mattress, but his dreams, for the first time in a long while, have been deep and peaceful.

Isobel is lying in his arms, her breathing still slow and heavy. He is surprised to see that she sleeps with her legs tucked right up to her stomach, her arms curled across her chest in a strangely vulnerable, childlike way. He wonders if she has always slept like this, or whether it is a habit she has adopted in the years she has spent alone, trying not to feel the emptiness in her own bed. Either way, he is content to watch her for a while, languidly stroking the bare skin of her arm.

He toys with the idea of waking her – after all, there is still an hour or so before they have to be at the hospital – but he decides against it. She looks too peaceful, and he doesn't mind waiting, drinking in the sight of her in the morning sunlight, the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

He doesn't know how long he spends just lying there, holding the solid warmth of her body against him; it is a different feeling to the sharp sting of her fingernails on his shoulder blades, or to the grip of her thighs around his waist, but he enjoys it just the same. He remembers how she looked in the firelight, shadows dancing across her skin as she took control of him, pinning him beneath her, reducing him to nothing. He almost laughs at the idea that it could be the same woman lying in his arms, looking positively angelic in the sunlight.

The night before had been a particularly dull dinner up at the big house; the only reason he had kept his sanity had been Isobel's presence just across the table. He had watched her all evening, drinking a glass of wine or two more than she usually would – her own coping strategy he assumed – and trying to be attentive to the latest hoard of important guests that Lord and Lady Grantham had invited. Her glances, however, always returned to him, accompanied with a sweet smile and a flutter of her eyelashes. _Good Lord, Isobel. Stop drinking the wine._ He had been certain that someone would notice, but nobody did – or at least they didn't say anything.

...

She stirs in her sleep, mumbling something he can't quite make out, trying to stretch in the cramped space between him and the wall. She half-opens her eyes, still hazy and unfocused with sleep, and he can almost see her brain trying to remember where she is, such is the look of concentration on her face.

"Morning," he whispers in her ear, stroking the silky length of honey blonde hair that reaches almost all the way down her back. He tenderly brushes a few strands out of her face, realising why she normally braids it before bed. It is one of the things he loves most about her – slowly unpinning it, watching it cascade past her shoulders, tangling his fingers in it as they find their rhythm together – and he wishes she would wear it like this more often, although she always laughs when he suggests it. _"It's not practical. Women don't go around like this, Richard, especially not at my age! I'll get a reputation!"_

"I had far too much wine last night," she replies, her voice a little hoarse. "I'm going to end up being the talk of the place."

He grins, moving his hand around to stroke the soft flesh of her stomach. He feels her react immediately, arching into him, letting out a soft whimper as he lets his thumb brush along her ribcage. He doesn't touch her anywhere other than there, but he can feel her moving against his hand, encouraging him to explore more of her.

"You may as well give them something to talk about," he suggests, nuzzling into the sensitive spot on her neck, breathing in the heady scent of her skin. He moves his hand a little lower, grazing her hipbone with his fingertips.

"You," she whispers between moans, "are a terrible influence."

He laughs, kissing her neck as she squirms beneath his touch. "I didn't force you to drink a drop." He moves over her, turning her on to her back, resting his weight on his forearms.

"It's not the wine I'm talking about."

"Something else on your mind?" he replies, a mock note of concern in his voice as he lets his hands continue their exploration of her bare skin. He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead, holding back a smirk as she narrows her eyes. "I think I'm going to get ready and head down to the hospital."

"You are going nowhere," she whispers, her own hands beginning to wander down the length of his stomach, her fingernails lightly grazing over the skin. She reaches up, capturing his lips in a torturously gentle kiss, until he is bearing down on her, pleading her for more.

"I'm the bad influence?" he gasps, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. She shrugs, unable to hold back a smug smile that is all too familiar.

"I was asleep."


End file.
